Dear Dumb Diary Year Two #3: Nobody's Perfect. I'm As Close As It Gets.
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extracurricular activity. Besides, I want a little
extra time to spend on science. When we go to that
science museum, I’m going make it very clear that I
am not the dumb one.
Here are just a few perfectly scientific things
I’ll do:
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Thursday 05
Dear Dumb Diary,
Today was Meat Loaf Day. I’m not sure if I’ve
mentioned this to you before, but every Thursday is
Meat Loaf Day at our school.
I know, I know. How bad can it be, right?
I mean, it’s made out of meat, and many of our
favorite things are made out of meat: steaks,
salami, my legs.
And it’s formed into a loaf, and I love loaf-
shaped objects. I love bread. I love Grandma.
But there’s something about how my school
prepares the meat loaf that makes it terrible.
Maybe it’s the type of beef they use, or the demons
that cast evil spells on it, or the seasonings. I
don’t know.
It’s probably the demons or the seasonings.
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Angeline eats the meat loaf every Thursday
and doesn’t complain ever, which proves, I think,
that even if you are blessed with intense good
looks, you can have the taste buds of one of those
rats that lives at the dump and eats diapers.
One can only assume that these taste buds will
grow and grow and grow until the taste buds take
over and the person is entirely diaper- dump rat. Oh,
did I say assume? I meant to say hope.
“Do you ever wonder why we eat this?” I asked,
waggling a clump on the end of my plastic fork.
Isabella grinned.
“Well, if you’re so smart, why don’t you tell
us?” she said, and a couple of people at our table
laughed.
“Maybe I will,” I said, wadding the lump up in
a piece of napkin and sticking it in my backpack,
because that’s what scientists do: We take samples.
Angeline leaned in close enough for me to
smell all nine of the distinct fragrances she was
wearing.
“Jamie. Seriously. Don’t worry about it. You’re
smart.”
I shoved her away. Then I pulled her back
for one more little sniff — because let’s face it,
she smells pretty good — and then shoved her
away again.
“Angeline. The first rule of science is that The
Smart Must Find Junk Out.”
Okay, at the time I thought that sounded like
something all the smart people would say, but now
when I see it written, I’m not so sure. I should have
said SMARTNESS MARCHES ON or IMA
GET ALL SMART UP IN HEYAH or something
like that.
Anyway.
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Friday 06
Dear Dumb Diary,
So in science we’re talking about animals
now, which is pretty interesting because there are
so many of them I like to pet and so many I like
to eat. There are even a few that fall into both
categories, which probably makes them really
nervous about what I’m thinking when they see me
coming.
We’re learning about how animals adapt to
their environments. Like, when ancient relatives of
the elephant moved to colder environments, they
evolved thick fur. When relatives of mine moved to
colder environments, they evolved sweaters and
complaining.
I felt like today was a good chance to begin
my meat loaf analysis.
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“Mrs. Curie,” I said scientifically, “is there a
reason for an animal to develop a bad taste so that
nobody wants to eat it?”
Mrs. Curie looked a little surprised, like all
teachers do when they realize you are actually
thinking.
“Yes, Jamie. As a matter of fact, many
animals taste bad, and it may be so that predators
won’t eat them.”
“But what if it has no effect?” I continued,
wishing I was wearing glasses so that I could remove
them and touch the stem to my chin thoughtfully.
“Some things taste bad, and people eat them
anyway.”
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Mrs. Curie peered around the room. I
wondered if she was looking out for tennis balls
before she turned around and wrote this on
the board: Why would people eat animals
that taste bad?
“Class,” she said, “Jamie has an interesting
question here, and it fits in with what we’re
studying.”
People started calling out answers and she
wrote them down.
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“It’s none of those,” I said. “None of those
reasons apply here. I’m talking about the school
meat loaf, and none of those reasons are the
reason. We’re not starving, we have other choices,
it can’t be that good for you, and except for
Isabella, nobody hates cows.”
“It’s that nonstop cud chewing all the time,”
Isabella piped up. “Always with the cud. Have you
ever tasted it? It’s not that great. Plus, cows get all
snorty when you take it from them.”
Mrs. Curie paused for a moment while
Isabella’s comment sank in. Then she shook her
head and moved on.
“Well, maybe it’s because the meat loaf is so
delicious, right?” she asked with a big hopeful grin.
We all shook our heads NO.
I don’t have my answer yet, so I’m going to
have to do more science, but see? I’M TELLING
YOU, I’M NOT THE DUMB ONE.
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After school today, I looked into another
extracurricular activity. I’m surprised at how many
there are at my school.
I haven’t told Isabella about the conversation
I had with Assistant Principal Uncle Dan yet, but
there’s a chance she already knows. Isabella likes to
spy on me. There is a chance she is watching me
right NOW.
I just whipped around to see if she was behind
me and yelled “NOW ! ” as I wrote that.
She wasn’t there, but Stinker was. He was
a little startled and bit my ankle and choked on a
Band-Aid that he pulled off my ankle and ate.
Maybe I shouldn’t let him do that. But I don’t
know, it seems to make him happy to believe he’s
injured me by biting off some of my skin, and it
doesn’t bother me when he chokes a little. It’s what
you call a win - win. It’s probably why we love each
other so much.
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I have to remember to let Stinker out of the
closet before I go to sleep. (He’s almost impossible
to catch, but I tricked him into running in there by
tossing in that meat loaf lump I still had in my
backpack. It smells just enough like food to fool a
fat old beagle.)
Back to today’s extracurricular adventure.
I figured that my perfect future might want
me to be a little more organized, so I went to th
is
after-school thing called LET’S GET
ORGANIZED, PEOPLE.
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Nobody was there except the teacher
supervisor, and she said that there actually are a
lot more people signed up, but they keep forgetting
to come, mostly because they aren’t organized
enough to write down when they’re supposed to
be there.
I figured that going to the meeting this one
time already makes me one of the star members of
the club, so I don’t really need it anymore. Just like
that, I decided to never attend again.
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Saturday 07
Dear Dumb Diary,
Angeline and her mom drove past this
morning and happened to catch me out in my front
yard throwing small stones at a bush.
Look, I know that may seem like a waste of
time, but it was just one of those things that you
find yourself doing and you can’t explain why.
I also like to sit in the grass sometimes and tear out
handfuls just to hear that pleasant ripping sound.
They stopped the car and Angeline hopped
out. She was all dressed up in soccer stuff because
she was headed to practice, and she asked if I
wanted to go along. She said the coach would
probably even let me play a bit to see if I liked it.
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I am looking for some extracurricular
things, and soccer is supposed to be a lot of fun,
and it is really good exercise, and lots of people
play. . . .
I said forget it.
But my mom was momfully standing in the
doorway listening and mommishly told me to go.
The only thing my mom likes making more than
making dinner and making beds is making
me do stuff.
Anyway, I put on some shorts and went along.
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I’m really not even sure why Angeline does
extracurricular things. She’s so beautiful that she’s
probably going to marry a billionaire one day or get
some amazing job where they don’t care if you get
everything wrong all the time as long as you look
good doing it.
That’s right, I’m looking at you, Miss
Weatherlady.
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I learned that soccer is mostly about chasing
a ball up and down a big field. I’m not sure how I
feel about playing a sport that even a very fat beagle
choking on a Band -Aid could easily beat me at.
Angeline makes it all seem very graceful, of
course, effortlessly resembling an antelope — and
at times, even a unicorn antelope, which
everyone knows is the most graceful antelope
ever born.
I looked a lot more like an orangutan hungrily
chasing a melon while trying to free up a wedgie.
After a very, very long and exhausting two full
minutes of play, I decided that soccer is not the
extracurricular for me.
Angeline was a little disappointed, saying
that she’d hoped I would join her team. I had to
tell her that it wouldn’t fit into my schedule very
well because I had something else to do every
Saturday forever.
I made sure that I sounded very not-dumb
when I said it, too, because I’m still mad at her for
thinking that I’m dumb.
I even remembered to let Stinker out of the
closet just now. Would THE DUMB ONE have
remembered that? Huh?
Okay, it’s about a day late, but I remembered.
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Sunday 08
Dear Dumb Diary,
Isabella came over to work on homework
today. She and I agree that homework strongly
indicates that the teachers are not doing their jobs
well enough during the school day. It’s not like
they’ll let you bring your home stuff to school
and work on it there. You can’t say, “I didn’t finish
sleeping at home, so I have to work on finishing
my sleep here.”
Before we started on the homework, I told her
about my little soccer outing with Angeline, and she
asked why I went along with it.
“Well, my mom was —” I began, and Isabella
put a finger over my lips and nodded. Any explanation
that begins, “Well, my mom . . .” really doesn’t
need to be finished.
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My little talk with Uncle Dan is still bugging
me. I asked Isabella if she ever worried about her
future, like going to college and getting a job and
all that stuff.
She laughed so hard in my face that I not only
knew she’d had bacon for breakfast, I could tell you
how many pieces.
“Jamie!” she scoffed. “You really are dumb,
aren’t you? It’s pretty obvious what I’m going to do
for a living one day, isn’t it?”
There was no way I was going to be the
dumb one.
“Yes. Oh, yeah. Of course. I mean, sure. It’s
obvious. I mean, yes. Yes, I know. I always knew.
One time I thought I didn’t know and then I realized
that I totally knew. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, I know,” I said
convincingly.
“Yes,” I added to make it extra extra-
convincing.
And then I added a kind of loud “Yup,” so
that there was no doubt that I knew.
I have no idea.
P.S. It was three pieces of bacon.
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Monday 09
Dear Dumb Diary,
Here’s how math class went down today.
Listen, when you are a beautiful young girl
who needs people to understand that you are not an
imbecile, math may not be doing you any favors.
I’ve really picked my grades up in math, and
I’ve learned that math is pretty much just a big
bully. Like any bully, he’ll try his best to scare and
intimidate you, but if you stand up to him and show
him you’re not scared, there is a very good chance
that he’ll make things even worse.
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Anyway, I’ve also discovered that I can do
math, although it requires some concentration and
focus and memorization and something else that I
don’t remember.
Today Mr. Henzy asked me to go up to the
board and complete a problem. You know, I’m fine
when it’s just me and my paper and pencil working
on the numbers. I’m just never ready to do it in front
of people. I can do it, but there’s going to be a
transformation occurring that I am not anxious to
let others witness. I can do the problem, but There
Will Be Scowling. There Will Be Wrinkles. There Will Be
Fingernail Chewage.
Why do we have to do things in front of
people to prove that we can? I brush my teeth by
myself, and nobody has ever asked me to prove I
can do that.
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I didn’t want to go to the board, and what I
thought was an excellent question suddenly
occurred to me, so I shared it with Mr. Henzy.
“Mr. Henzy,” I asked, “ didn’t someb
ody
complete this exact same problem in your class
last year?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And probably every year, for many years
before that?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
I had him right where I wanted him.
“Don’t you think it’s time that you finally
accepted the answer? The rest of us have
all accepted it, Mr. Henzy, and we feel like it’s time
to move on.”
About one second later, in the assistant
principal’s office, my Uncle Dan looked at me across
his big desk. He was looking very principally and not
very unclish.
Or uncley. Would the word be uncley?
Anyway.
“Jamie, you usually don’t have this many run-
ins with teachers. First with Mrs. Curie, and now
with Mr. Henzy,” he said sternly.
“He started it,” I said, knowing that wouldn’t
work as the words left my mouth. It’s really too bad
that you can’t catch things when they’re between
your mouth and the other person’s ears. So I added:
“Math is a huge pain in the . . . Area of
Victimization.”
Uncle Dan smiled.
“Well, I must say that I am very pleased that
you took my advice,” he said, thumping my file with
his hand. “I see here in your Permanent Record that
you’ve signed up for several extracurriculars, and
even started playing soccer.”
Well, I DID sign up for the extracurriculars. I
decided to never go to them ever, ever, ever again,
but what he said is technically true, and let’s face
it, technically true is a lot like true true.
And I DID start playing soccer. The fact that
I stopped two minutes later didn’t really have to
come up.
And then I understood.
It’s a PERMANENT Record. Permanent.
Like, it can’t be erased. They know that you signed
up, but they don’t know that you quit, and you get
to go to college anyway. This may explain why so
many lazy people graduate.
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